


What Makes Life Divine: A Steter Cinderella AU

by Oras



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Humor, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Minor Character Death, No Smut, Stiles Stilinksi as Cinderella, The Cinderella story no one asked for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 15:21:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13527075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oras/pseuds/Oras
Summary: Stiles Stilinski once had a happy life and family, but luck had never been quite on his side. Instead his family died and he had to grow up with his stepfamily. There was not a day in his life where he didn't feel lonely.But then on one day, as he was voicing his frustrations and sorrows, he met the one thing that turned his entire life upside down.





	What Makes Life Divine: A Steter Cinderella AU

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there, here is a little spin off on the Grimm Brother’s version and Disney’s version of Cinderella. 
> 
> Fair warning, this is about 9000 words long and not proofread. Feedback is welcome so errors can be changed later on!
> 
> Hope you like it!
> 
> BTW! This title is inspired by an amazing work of fiction on this site. It's one of my favourite ones: Cinderpulse: A Bluepulse Cinderella AU. It's written by the amazing writer: The_Mouse_of_Anon
> 
> So if DC is your thing and you ship BluePulse (BartAllen/JaimeReyes) go check it out, it's absolutely worth it! Here's the link; https://archiveofourown.org/works/6770746

Once upon a time, there was a young boy, a mother and a father. And they were very happy together. They had everything they could hope for, a big home, plenty of food, a flock of servants and most importantly, a family. Their every desire they had upon grasp. Life could not get better.

Unfortunately, it didn’t get better.

The mother, Claudia, became sick. Gravely so. Her husband and her son kept by her side, doctors from all over the country came in to look after her. But alas, it was meant to happen. It just happened sooner than anyone could have expected.

The father and son were heartbroken, there was not a day the boy wouldn’t cry for his mother. Not a day where the father couldn’t pass along one more drink. He didn’t know how to raise his beautiful son alone, was too afraid he’d make a mistake and lose his boy forever. But he tried. He stopped drinking, for Stiles’ sake, and went back to work. He worked long and hard days, and thus often felt guilty. He left his son alone so many times, his heart chipped a bit off every day as he left from the front door.

But then he’d be home and there would be dinner on the table. And the house would be clean. And Stiles would be sitting in the parlour, a big smile on his face as he shot off the divan and sprinted towards his father, engulfing him in a fierce, tight hug. 

Life was good. Not perfect, could never be perfect again, but it was getting better. Stiles was growing up so fast, too fast for his father’s liking, but he loved his son. He’d do anything for him and he was proud that at such a young age he could do the things he’d do. He was bright, and kind, and loyal. Too much for his own good as he owned up to one of the servants’ mistakes. Again.

To him, they were his friends. His family. They lived too far away from town to have any friends of his own age. So, his father would often bring him with him to town or to work. Soon everyone knew him there and they’d greet him with a huge smile on their faces as they saw the young boy strolling around. 

But even this happiness wasn’t meant to last long.

His father remarried to a witch. An actual wench of a human being who liked to see people suffer. 

“Stiles! Where is my tea?” His stepmother screeched throughout their house. His father had no idea he was being treated this way. He didn’t dare tell him, didn’t dare break the happy façade his father thought was his life. He wanted him happy just as much as Stiles’ father wanted. And as awful as the treatment towards him might have been, he could handle it. For his father.

He’d get up from where he was asleep, a mattress made of straw and hay, laid next to the fireplace. His face and clothes were covered in cinder and he ran outside to the well to freshen up as hastily as he could. He splashed the ice-cold water in his face and washed his hands before running back in and yelling, “Coming!” to his stepmother. He prepared the tea, was half-tempted to spit in it for good measure, but changed his mind last-second. He put everything on a tray and walked over to his stepmother’s room.

She had wanted Claudia’s room, since it was bigger and had a better view. Stiles’ father had put his foot down and said she could have any other room they had. Except this one. His stepmother had no other choice but to abide it. 

When he walked in the room he put the tray on the small coffee table and opened the curtains, letting the light back into the room. He poured his stepmother a cup of tea and handed it to her.

“Ow! Stiles! You insolent child! This cup is fuming hot!” She screamed as she thrusted the cup back into Stiles’ hands. He hissed as the content spilled over the side and glided over his skin, leaving red angry streaks in their wake. 

Despite the pain, Stiles still felt the urge to snort and roll his eyes, but he remained quiet and bit his tongue. “Well, that is how hot tea works, stepmother,” he murmured instead, walking back to the coffee table to place the cup there. If she wanted the damned cup now, she had to stand up for it. 

She groaned as if she had told him this so many times, “You put an ice cube with the tea so it becomes easier on the tongue, you fool!” She threw the covers of the duvet off her and almost marched down to her coffee table, where she promptly plopped down in her seat.

“Or,” Stiles began, refusing to let her win an argument. Ever. “You could wait till it’s cooled off,” he commented. He took a step back and made a quick glance of the entire room. “Like a normal person.” He whispered the last part as he went to pick up the discarded clothing that was strewn around the room. He dumped them all on the bed and crossed his arms. “Anything else?”

The Stepmother stopped blowing at the cup of tea and didn’t even spare him a simple glance, she merely huffed and puffed as she sighed like it was a damn chore to talk to him. “Go check on my girls, will you?” She said, voicing it like an order rather than a question. “Be sure to bring them cooled down tea!” She yelled after him as he walked out of her room.

He should have spit in her tea.

Fuming he walked back to the kitchen and made another set of tea, this one hotter than the previous one, and moved to the rooms of his stepsisters. He woke the older one first and ‘accidentally’ spilled some of the sugar on her leg, to which he got a stinging slap in the face, and then moved to his younger sister’s room. He woke her, gave her the tea as she mouthed a quiet ‘thank you’ before her gaze got stuck on his hand and then his face. Her eyebrows bunched up, her lips pointing down, like she was actually pitying him. She was about to open her mouth to comment on his appearance before he darted out of her room, back to the kitchen.

He needed to do a clean-up and do all of the chores before his father came home. He still needed to play out his act and pretend to be part of a happy, whole family. But as he was finished with his chores, and as he washed himself more thoroughly and changed into his good clothes, and the sky faded from blue to orange, and from orange to purple and then black, his nerves started to spike up. His father had never been so late. Not ever since his mother had just passed away. His heart was throbbing in his throat, there had to be a reason on why he was so awfully late. Stiles would have to give him an earful on scaring him like that.

But he was never able to get that chance.

For on that night, even his father had left him. 

*

Three years went by, Stiles was eighteen by now, and he had never felt so utterly alone in his life before. Not even when his dear mother had died. Not even when his father was away for work. Not even on the night when his father’s co-worker, Parrish, came by to tell them all the news. Of his father who had been killed in the act of duty.

His treatment only got worse with the years. He’d become thinner than ever, actually managing to see his ribs and sometimes catching his sullen look in the mirrors he was supposed to clean. He lived a horrible life. But he lived. He was alive. And he would continue to do so.

He wouldn’t give up like this. 

One day he’d live to his heart content, but until then he’d have to make do with his mattress near the fireplace. Most of the servants had been fired as well, since his stepmother couldn’t pay for them. Which meant that Stiles had to do all the chores instead of the few he’d usually do. 

It was tough work, he wasn’t even in his twenties and his joints ached from all the manual labour. Or maybe because he wasn’t getting enough nutrition, but who could possibly know? He wasn’t even allowed to see a doctor. 

On his slow days, when the family had feasted and drunk to their heart’s content and left to bed or went into town, Stiles would sit outside beside the well. He’d wish and wish for someone or even something he could talk to. Someone who’d listen to his complaints or someone who he could banter with, just like he’d done with his father so many years ago. 

Today had been one of those days. He felt lonely, he was cold, and not a soul around him. He played with the frayed hem of his apron. Once it was white, but now it was a muddy sort of brown, closer to black than anything else. He sighed, his shoulder slumped and gaze pointed at his crisscrossed legs. He was sitting against the wall of the well, facing towards the backdoor of the house. 

“You know…” he started, talking to himself, because who else was there? He needed to voice himself somehow. “There is nothing that is keeping me here. But I’m still not sure why I don’t want to leave,” he scoffs, shaking his head at his own childishness. “It’s not like they’d miss me. Or care for that matter. It’s just that…” his voice wobbled as his eyes started to glaze over, the next words were whispered almost carefully, “if I leave here, I’d have to accept it. That I have no one left. And I don’t think I can do that.” His last words were almost inaudible, interrupted by his hiccups as tears threatened to spill. They’d leave a streak of white skin where they would spill, showing exactly how covered in filth he was at the moment. Somehow that hurt even more, because he did live in a home. He did have food. He did have water and warmth. But he couldn’t use any of it. 

They wanted him to waste away. And so he was.

He wiped his tears away, moving the filth over his cheek and creating an even bigger mess on his face and clothes, he was ready to stand up as he heard the wildlife and the trees behind him rustle. He turned around, looked on the ground to find anything to defend himself with, grabbed the nearest wooden tool he could find and stood his ground, ready to strike whoever was coming out from the trees.

It looked like a… dog? A really big one too. He lowered his wooden tool, but remained his distance. The dog took a step closer, and another, and another. It didn’t look hostile, though he was on guard just like Stiles. He put his wooden tool on the ground, and knelt down, reached his hand out and gave a soft ‘Hey buddy’ to the animal. The dog took another few steps forward, sniffing Stiles’ hand before sitting right there in front of him. 

Now that the animal was in the light Stiles could see it much better. Its fur was a very dark brown, much like his apron. But the eyes, those were an ice cold sort of blue, reminding him of his mother’s favourite colour. He seemed to be hurt as old scars engulfed one side of his face entirely. The poor thing must have suffered a lot in his life. It didn’t look as much like a dog anymore, but that might just be because of all the fur. Stiles made an educated guess and assumed the dog was a boy. Cautiously his hand moved forward to pet his head, his fur was tangled and muddied, but it still felt soft and warm. 

“You hungry?” Stiles asked after the dog felt tired of his petting and kept evading Stiles’ hand. The dog’s ears perked up at that and he opened his mouth, letting his tongue hang out. Stiles gave a him a mellow sort of smile before he stood up. “Wait here, buddy. I’ll get you something.” And true to his word, Stiles went into the kitchen and grabbed all the meat he could find. He grabbed a bowl as well and filled that with water from the well as he let the dog hoggishly eat his meal. He set the bowl beside him and sat back on the stone wall of the well. “You must have been starving, huh?” He cocked his head as he kept watching the poor animal. Even though he was covered in his fur, he did look like he was a tad too thin. Though Stiles’ shouldn’t probably say anything about looking a bit on the scrawny side.

After the dog had his meal and drank his water, he brushed his head against Stiles’ thigh, sneezing when his nose came in contact with his cinder-stained clothes. Stiles laughed, his mouth broadening at the sight of it. “You are just adorable,” he commented, petting the dog again. The dog gave him this look, which was almost human, as if to say ‘Really?’ He looked fairly unimpressed with the young man.

The dog didn’t stay long though, only a few more minutes passed before sounds in the house could be heard. His family had returned. The dog licked his hand, nudged his knee and turned around. He padded back, the same way he came from. Stiles felt his stomach knot over this, feeling quite alone again, but at least he had someone to talk to for a bit. He sighed as he stepped back into the house, ready for whatever hell his family had in stall for him.

*

A few days later he could hear his family gloat over something. His curiosity spiked and he went to innocently investigate. He went to clean up in the parlour where they were seated around the coffee table. 

“The prince will love my dress! And then we’ll dance in the gardens and he’ll fall for me, it is undeniable!” His elder sister sang in the air, her hands clutched together to her chest. Stiles was surprised none of the glass exploded upon her screeching voice. 

“No, no, the prince will love me!” his younger sister began, “for I am kinder, smarter and better looking than you,” she smirked.

The elder one, her face shocked and steadily reddening with anger, was appalled by this. Her hand formed into fists, ready to strike her sister down, when the mother came back into the room and tutted at their behaviour. “The prince will not fall for a country farm wrestler!” She chided as she sat down beside them. 

“Why would the prince of this country be looking at any of you?” Stiles spoke, his mouth betraying him once more. 

His stepmother looked like she was about to throw the nearest vase at his head, he felt guilty to be relieved that there was none since she already threw that vase at him a month ago. 

“If you must know, Cinderwench, it is because of the upcoming ball we’re invited to,” his stepmother smirked. 

Stiles felt almost sick to his stomach as a tiny voice escaped him. “We?” he asked hopefully.

His stepmother didn’t spare him a single glance as she spoke, “The girls and I, of course. You won’t be coming with. I couldn’t bring a street rat with me, now could I?”

Stiles wished there was a vase in that room, just so he could throw it at her this time. It was her fault he looked like a damn homeless person. Instead he asked, “When is the ball?”

His elder sister spoke first, “Two weeks from now, you’ll have to go into town with me! I need to buy a new dress and you need to carry my chosen fabrics to the seamstress!”

“No! He has to come with me!” his younger sister screeched, she pulled on her elder sister’s hair and they both tumbled down to the ground in an angry fit. The mother, shocked by this, completely forgets about Stiles and turns her attention to her daughters. Stiles moves back to the kitchen, preparing their next meal, all the while thinking about how badly he would have wanted to go to the ball. 

*

A few days had passed since that day. Stiles was all washed up and was wearing his better clothes so he could be seen in public with his younger sister, who had won the fight the other day. His younger sister was looking at the different sorts of fabric in the small shop, making small talk with the shop owner. She truly was the kinder one between the two, but that still made her a horrid person in Stiles’ mind. 

Stiles was looking at some plaid fabric when a figure was moving in the corner of the street they were in. It looked like a beggar and Stiles felt bad for the poor man. He grabbed a couple of coins from his pouch and walked over to the man, kneeling down and laying it in front of him. The poor man was burnt entirely on one side of his face, making Stiles gasp. The man huddled further into the old, frayed blanket he had draped over himself. 

His stomach churned because of it. He wanted to ask if the man was okay, but they seemed like old scars. Instead he gave the man a weak smile. “Wait here,” he told him. He walked into the fabric store he was in and bought a new, warmer blanket. His sister was still busy looking for different kinds of fabric, so he figured he had some time to go into a pub as well and buy some food and water for the man. 

He brought all of it back to him and gave him a bigger smile and a wink as he laid the new blanket around the man. “It’s going to be a very cold night today, best to wrap up,” he said, making small talk even though he was sure the man wouldn’t answer back. He handed him his food on a wooden platter he took with him from the pub when a hand crept on his shoulder, making him jump and nearly fall over.

He turned around, flustered, and was relieved to find a friend. “Parrish!” he chided. “I told you not to sneak up on me!”

Said man in uniform only gleamed in pride. “I thought I told you to watch your back around these parts of town?” he then answered back, eyeing the sitting beggar who was quietly eating his food. 

“I was!” Stiles frowned, still feeling his heart racing. “You just always try to scare me,” he huffed, crossing his arms as he turns towards him.

“Because your guard is not up, you wouldn’t be scared if you had seen me coming,” Parrish added. Though he said it in a joking matter, Stiles knew he was serious. These parts haven’t been the safest anymore since his father had died. He had been the sheriff around here, and everything had been peaceful for a long time. Until he died of course, then crime seemed to peak and it was still peaking. “How have you been?” he then asks, changing the subject. “Every time I see you, you seem more sullen than the previous time. Not to mention your weight…” His eyes were raking over him as if he were a display in a museum, but he was frowning all the same. 

“I’m fine,” he answered hastily, taking a short step back. “Or… I’m getting there. I’ll be better soon,” he smiled, albeit painfully. 

Parrish shook his head, his left hand rose up to cup Stiles’ cheek. “You know you can always come to me for help. In fact, I’m sure I have seen you less in these three years than I’d usually see you in a week when your father was still here.” He took a step closer, his other hand now cupping his cheek as well, his thumbs caressing his cheekbones. “You can still live with me if you want, the offer stands,” he added, his voice a soft murmur. 

Stiles’ hand immediately shot up, cupping both of Parrish’s hands as he lowered them from his face. He shook his hand and gave him another painfilled smile. “I once told you my answer was no, it is still the same now.” He let go of Parrish’s hands, taking another step back. Stiles’ gaze moved towards the sitting man instead.

The beggar had taken a break from his meal to look at Parrish, his eyes were shooting daggers at him, a clear frown on his face. He then turned to look at Stiles. One eyebrow lifted as if to say ‘Really?’ His face reddened almost instantly, to have such a scene in front of this man… Oh god, he felt awful. Like Stiles’ drama was any of his concern, he had probably more things to worry about. Stiles coughed a few times and returned to look at Parrish, wanting to end this conversation as fast as possible so he could leave the beggar alone.

Parrish and him had some small talk, had a few laughs and were about to say their goodbyes when Parrish grabbed his wrist. “Don’t go out at night, okay?” He ordered.

He lifted an eyebrow and said, “I can take care of myself.”

Parrish shook his head, “this is different,” he explained. “There is a group of killers on the loose and we haven’t been able to catch them. It is dangerous to be out at night, so you need to promise you’ll stay indoors.”

Stiles numbly nodded, he felt cold sweat cover his neck and shoulders as he saw Parrish move away. He gave the beggar one last smile and walked back to his sister who was throwing a fit because he couldn’t find him. He rolled his eyes, grabbed all the fabric and walked over to the seamstress.

*

That night, when he could hear the wind howling and saw the rain pouring down, he was almost glad to sleep beside the fireplace. His room was actually the attic these days, but since Stiles had thrown away the key into the well and his stepmother wasn’t able to lock the door anymore, he could stay beside the fireplace near the kitchen. It was still away from wandering guests, so his stepmother didn’t actually care.

But even if it was one of those rare days where he was glad to burrow himself in cinder, he had no luck to actually stay there. Once his stepmother heard he had abandoned his stepsister in town to talk to one of the local policemen she was furious. She had yelled and trashed around, slapping him in the face, holding his arm in a bruising grip and had thrown him outside into the yard. He was drenched in a matter of seconds, the cold already making his bones ache. 

The only place there was any mild cover was near the big tree beside the well, so he ran over and knelt down, hugging his own body to try to stay warm. Minutes quickly turned in hours and everything hurt. The raindrops felt like tiny knives slicing off his skin and even his tears felt warmer than heat of his own body. He laid on the ground, his arms loosely wrapped around himself, and his eyes kept closing of their own accord. 

He wasn’t sure if he was feeling hot or cold anymore. But he knew he hurt. He knew he was tired. 

Then, the same dog he had seen about a week ago was there. It was hard to see in the dark, but he knew the dog was soaked to the bone. The dog curled around him, tried to even lie on top of him, and nuzzled his neck like he were protecting it. 

Stiles felt so incredibly tired, but he still clung to the dog’s warmth.

And he fell asleep.

*

He woke up without the dog. He must have wandered off somewhere, but it couldn’t have been too long ago, his shirt still felt warm from where the dog had lain. He walked back to the backdoor, saw that the door handle and lock both had… fallen off? Scratched off? There was an entire bloody hole in the door, so it might’ve as well been blown off.

There was a funny kind of feeling brooding in his stomach. What if those killers Parrish talked about broke in yesterday. What if his family wasn’t there anymore? It felt like a rush of adrenaline, he needed to know. He ran inside, although cautiously, and walked around the kitchen, the parlour and finally to their rooms. He found them all together in the mother’s room, all together talking whilst drinking their tea. 

He felt… disappointed? Angry? Surprised? He wasn’t even sure what was going through his own head… He simply walked past and went up the attic, changing into dry and warm clothes and walked back down, sitting next to the fireplace with a bowl of soup. Strangely enough, nothing was hurting him. He felt fine, which he wouldn’t have expected from yesterday. 

He shrugged it off and started to chug down his soup, ready to hide away for the rest of the day. If his stepmother thought he’d run off, then fine. He’d deal with that punishment later.

*

Strangely enough, he’d never gotten sick from his previous punishment. Nor had his stepmother punished him further. Though that might have been because the bruising on his arm had been too evident and if she’d punish him more he wouldn’t have been able to go back to town with his elder sister. 

And so, back in town he was. His elder sister in the fabric shop, commanding the poor shop owner and ordering the helpers around. He waited outside, he couldn’t bear looking at her screaming at the workers. He’d decided to check up on the beggar he had seen last time, but there was no one there. The storm must have forced him to go inside some pub and rent a room. At least he had another blanket, which put him at ease. 

He turned around just about Parrish was about to scare him again. This time Stiles merely lifted an eyebrow and raised his chin. “You were saying?” he joked, his lips slowly starting to creep up. 

“Aren’t you getting better at it,” Parrish joked with, amused that the young man managed to actually take up on his advice. “How have you been?”

At this Stiles’ smiles faltered. He shrugged his shoulders and sighed, “As well as one can be. How’s work been treating you?” he asked in return.

To this Parrish actually grinned. “Better somehow. The killers I talked to you earlier about?” the older man explained, trying to remind Stiles of where they had left of in their previous encounter. “They have been found and dealt with. Their leader however, it appears she was dead on scene. Not that it matters, they were all awful people who’d stay the rest of their lives behind bars either way.”

Stiles looked surprised. It was good that such awful people had been dealt with, but usually the policemen would look into a murder. That’s what they would have done if his father were still around. A crime was a crime, even from and to a bad person. 

But that is where his father and he were different. Morally, at least. His father was a righteous and just person. And Stiles, was not. He believed there was a time that people just couldn’t uphold the law, for they had no other choice. He remembered the hour-long discussions he’d hold with his father about it. Since a young age he’d been interested with crime and solving mysteries and puzzles. He had gotten that from his father, of course.

From his mother, however, he’d gotten something much more pure. Something he holds close to heart ever since she passed. 

“Does that mean we’re safe, mister Parrish?” Stiles smiled, softly laughing.

“Yes, I do believe so, mister Stilinski,” Parrish laughed back. “There’s still two unsolved murders, but for both we’ve quite figured out what was going on.”

“Oh, do tell,” Stiles said, feeling highly intrigued by Parrish’s reveal. 

Parrish smirked, knew he’d be able to talk a bit longer if he’d mention the ongoing mystery. “Well, the leader of that group of killers?” he began again, “Her father has been found dead as well. Quite peculiar too.”

“How so?”

“Well, the body had a bitemark. But there was blackened blood found at the scene. Apparently he was on some sort of medication, we’ve been trying to find out if one of the servants increased the dosage.”

Stiles hummed, looking down to his feet as if all the answers were there, he started frowning. “But what about the bitemark?” he asked, looking back up to Parrish.

“Wild animal perhaps? They live in the woods.”

“Are there wolves?” 

“Of course not, don’t be silly,” Parrish smirked.

Stiles merely hummed again, raising his chin. “You deem me a fool?”

Parrish gasped, “I wouldn’t dare!” he mocked, his hands grasping at his chest. But then he smiled and laughed. “it’s highly unlikely, but it could be possible. Maybe they migrated?”

Stiles smiled and shook his head. “Perhaps,” he agreed. “And the other murder?”

“Some man, blind, in his forties perhaps? He was described as cool and calculating, but also as an insane loony yelling out on full moons that he was a… a true something? Can’t remember, honestly,” Parrish scoffed. “Those were the weirdest witness reports I had even written down,” he scoffed as he was shaking his head. 

“How did he die?” Stiles asked, fascinated by the story. 

“Slashed throat, looked like an animal did it.”

Stiles took a step closer. “Did he live in the woods too?” 

“No, he was found inside of a warehouse. He must have pissed some bad people off, it didn’t look like his body was moved either.”

“Interesting…”

“We think it was that same group of killers though, some of them were really just that cruel. They burnt down a house six years ago. Fourteen people burned alive in it,” Parrish said, looking rueful as he was explaining the matter. “They had it coming, really.”

Stiles agreed, they did have it coming. He had heard about that case from his father. He had still been grieving from the loss of Claudia at that point, was still drinking then. They never did manage to complete that case. 

“The beggar seems to be gone,” Stiles then said, changing the subject entirely.

Parrish sniggered, “it’s weird, really. He’d been sitting there for weeks.” He looked at the same spot as Stiles was. “He never let anyone give him any sort of pitying looks, he’d lash out at them. At first we though he was just drunk, but then we saw his face and well… then it became obvious why he didn’t like people.”

“And chose corners in alley streets rather than pubs?” Stiles added, looking back at Parrish. He crossed his arms and shrugged. “If he hated people so, why did he accept the change, the blanket and food I brought him?”

Parrish remained quiet at that for a while, before he turned to look at the young man. Then, softly, he answered, “Maybe you just have that effect on people?” He gave Stiles another smile and a small wink, he tapped his shoulder and walked back in the direction of the station, cutting their conversation off there. 

Stiles walked back to the fabric shop, sparing one last glance at the corner he found the beggar in. He was delighted to know that his sister was still ordering people around and had not noticed his disappearance. He helped her choose a fabric and apologised to every worker there before he walked over to the seamstress. Repeating the same process as last time.

*

It was the day of the ball and his sisters and stepmother were just about to leave. Stiles had walked downstairs, wearing one of his father suits, but luck had never been quite on his side. His sisters and stepmothers had ripped it apart into pieces. And of course, because Stiles’ life can never be just okay, they’d left with strings of insultments. 

Stiles walked outside, back to the well and sat down. His tears couldn’t be held back any longer and he was crying his eyes out, secretly calling out to his father in his mind. Even though he could never help or hear him again.

He heard the same rustles from the trees as he had all those nights ago and assumed it was just the stray dog that kept coming on going. He willed his tears away, ready to grab some food for the poor animal when he looked around and saw a person there.

His throat went tight when he saw the man. He didn’t think he’d ever seen a person with a face that handsome, nor with clothes of that quality.

“I’m sorry, I seem to be lost. Could you help me, I’ve been dying for water,” the man spoke, cocking his head as he looked at the young man. Stiles nodded, it took a while before he actually moved, but he brought a cup of water to the man who drank it eagerly. “Right, okay, we don’t have any time, go grab me a pumpkin will you?”

“I… a pumpkin?” he asked, perplexed. “Time for what?”

“A series of international, underground adventures to find Atlantis,” the man answered, his voice dry and void of emotion.

“Really?” Stiles asked, not even knowing if the man were speaking the truth or not.

The man actually rolled his eyes and said, “No, of course not, you idiot. To the ball, what else?” 

Stiles simply shook his head, taken aback. “Who are you?”

The man in question sighed, looking at his pocket watch to find the time. “Your fairy godfather, will that make you ask less and do more?”

“My.. you… a pumpkin you said?” Stiles just murmured, to confused to ask questions back. He gathered everything the man—his fairy godfather—asked for. Which were a pumpkin, mice, a goose and lizards. This man had to be drunk, wasn’t he? He had to be…

The mysterious man then pulled out a white wand, almost looking like crystal. He flicked and waved and everything started turning, changing into something else. The pumpkin became a carriage, the mice became horses, the lizards were footmen and the goose became the coachman. 

“What are you?” Stiles asked, dumbstruck by what he saw. 

The man walked to the carriage and opened the door. “I told you who I was.” He cocked his head to the carriage, wordlessly telling him to get in, but Stiles shook his head. He looked troubled and moved his gaze towards his feet, taking a short step back as if he were about to bolt back into the house. “What are you waiting for?” the man asked incredulously. 

Stiles whispered, “I can’t go like this… I still have that much pride left, you know,” he joked ruefully. 

Peter hummed, “Well, you’re not wrong.” He flicked and waved the crystal wand again, and his suit turned into a beautiful black one. One that actually was up-to-date with todays fashion, and that looked really expensive… Let’s go then, the magic will wear off at midnight. Move,” he ordered again, this time all out of patience. 

And Stiles moved as fast as he could, nearly jumping into the carriage. The man stepped in and sat opposite of him, closing the door and letting the coachman—the goose… oh my god, that thing can’t even drive—know they ready to go.

“Your name?” Stiles asked, this time not letting go on who the hell this man was.

“Peter Hale,” the man smirked. 

“I’m—”

“Stiles. I know,” Peter simply answered, sounding cocky about it too.

*

They arrived at the ball and somehow Stiles immediately lost sight of Peter. His stomach churned at the loss of him, he had no idea what he was doing here. The prince had just danced with a beautiful girl with dark brown hair and now it was time to dance with the rest of the people. Somehow even Stiles had managed to dance with the prince, Scott McCall, a numerous amount of times. Though they were all for fun and they couldn’t stop giggling and joking about it. Prince McCall told him he must certainly come to the palace again, he introduced him to the girl he’d been dancing with, Allison and then gave his goodbyes as he danced another round with her. 

He drank and ate to his heart’s delight and danced and laughed with all kinds of people. He’d never met so many people whom he could feel so happy with. But… he was still missing something. He walked to the gardens and finally, after a long time of looking, he found what he had been looking for.

“Peter?”

Peter looked around, surprised to find him standing there. “Aren’t you supposed to be necking on with the prince or something?” Peter scoffed, raising an eyebrow at the young man who walked over to him and sat beside him.

“Prince McCall seemed to be busy with that already, You’re my consolation prize,” Stiles smirked as he nudged the man’s thigh. “Will you dance with me?”

Peter remained quiet for a short while. He then, suddenly and out of nowhere, grabbed Stiles’ hand and dragged him to the rose garden. There the music could still be heard. He bowed to his partner and then raised his left hand, asking for Stiles’ in return. 

Stiles smiled and gladly gave him his hand. In return, he was immediately pulled in, a warm hand grabbing him around his waist. 

They danced in tune with the music, swaying and turning, but never once were they stopping. It felt like hours. And Stiles laid his head on Peter’s shoulder just before the song ended. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Peter huffed, but still gave him a short smile. “If only you knew,” he murmured. He let go of Stiles’ waist and hand and took a step back as the music had finally stopped. “Anything else? You have till midnight, you know.”

Stiles looked at the bell tower and read the time. He still had about an hour left. “Can I ask for anything?” he asked, turning his gaze to Peter.

“Anything within reason.”

Stiles smirked, “And are you my voice of reason?”

“In this scenario, yes,” Peter smirked back, his much more defined as well as dignified. He almost looked royal with his looks and blue eyes and… 

The air in his lungs seemed stuck, he didn’t think he could breath for a second as it deemed upon him. He took a step forward... and softly, almost carefully, he said, “then kiss me.”

Peter’s eyes grew, his eyebrows shooting up and mouth opening. Surprised and a bit numb he answered back, “I’m supposed to be your fairy godfather…”

Stiles scoffed and now it was his turn to roll his eyes. “Okay, one) you’re not a fairy. And two) if the godfather part is the problem then I could just call you daddy.” If Peter had been drinking, he’d spit everything out right about now. “Problem?” he asked, one eyebrow raised, a smirk evident on his face.

Oh, there sure as hell was a problem. Peter was never going to let this kid go. But he was well aware the puzzle pieces had clicked in Stiles’ mind by now. He shook his head as he stepped forward, grabbed the young man by his waist and pulled him flush against him, his lips merely inches from his face. “Only you would challenge a predator when he knows he is one,” Peter murmured, almost against his lips.

“Sure you’re not a dog?” Stiles grinned.

Peter rolled his eyes and pulled the boy in by his neck, plastering their lips together in a bruising kiss. He’d been desperate for it too, had been wanting to feel the younger man’s lips against his, had caught himself thinking on how it would feel and what he would do when he finally got the chance. 

But now that he was, he couldn’t think of anything else.

Only soft lips, moving against each other as their hands roamed over their bodies and into their hair, tugging on it or playing with it as it moved down to their necks and backs and waists. Or in Stiles’ case on his ass and Stiles nearly moaned into his mouth as Peter squeezed the flesh. He was left imagining how it would feel without clothes and boy, he needed to stop thinking about it right about now before he actually decided to defile the younger man in the king’s garden.

He was a daring man, but not stupid. 

That night, they had kissed, they had shared drinks, they had danced and they had travelled back home to Stiles’ house. The carriage turned back into a pumpkin, the horses back into mice, the coachman back into a goose and the footmen back into lizards. Of course, that also meant his suit turned back into his father’s, still torn apart. 

He simply shrugged and gave Peter one final bruising kiss, thanking him for the evening and telling him to come see him again. 

Peter merely nodded as he held the boy close to him, rubbing their cheeks together and merely hugging each other before they let go.

*

It had been months since then. The abuse never stopped, only got worse as the Stepmother was in a horrible mood. She had seen Stiles there, dancing with another man, dancing with the prince even and he’d gotten the beating of a lifetime. 

He couldn’t walk properly for a week, his ankle had swollen up too much. But still, every morning he’d wake up with no pain. 

His stepmother would lock him up in the attic, finally having replaced the lock, and he’d be left there to starve. But still he’d find food around the place. On the windowsill, on his makeshift bed, under the planks where he had hidden his most valuable possesions. His only ones. He’d find warm blankets, one especially familiar one, draped over his bed. 

He’d find clues and hints to keep him entertained or he’d find something as simple as a newspaper. There now was a checkboard on the windowsill. And every night a piece moved till one side won. Then they’d start all over again. 

But even with these small sparks of happiness, the abuse never stopped.

There was one time his stepmother forbade him to sleep, thus waking him up whenever she could. He had been awake for over three days before he had collapsed in the stalls. He woke up in his room, with a blanket around him and soup on the ground beside him. 

One time, when he was sitting at the well for hours, wishing for another last dance while he was mending all his wounds he’d gotten, he heard a noise coming from the attic. Stiles stood up and run inside, afraid his stepmother had found his last treasures under the floorboard and destroying it as he spoke. 

He ran upstairs and nearly yelled, “Stepmother, wait!” when he saw Peter. His mouth closed with a 'clunk' and he was left gasping as he finally saw the man for the first time in so long. 

For a vast amount of time neither of them spoke. Peter leant against the windowsill, contemplating his next move on the checkerboard as Stiles sat down on his bed, taking the view in and trying to comprehend it.

It ruined out, he couldn’t. So he simply opened his mouth and spoke.

“How come I met you as a dog?”

“Wolf.” Peter corrected him, not looking up from the checkerboard. “Really Stiles, a dog?” he asked, rolling his eyes. “It’s because it was a full moon when I found you.”

“So you admit you’re not my fairy godfather?”

“Don’t be oblivious, you knew who I was the moment you saw me. You’re sharper than that, don’t dumb yourself down.”

He did know who he was. He’d been solving the puzzle ever since he saw that dog—wolf—for the first time. His father had told him all about solving cases, would usually take him with him to petty crimes and let him solve it. His mother, though, she had taught him something entirely else.

She taught him of a world of magic, and mythical creatures and stories. Although she always used to say they weren’t stories, they were real. And Stiles believed it, had believed it for a long time. Even had a spell book stored under the floorboards. But with his mother gone, the belief started to fade too, even though he knew he had evidence that the supernatural existed. 

In his head everything clicked the moment he knew Peter’s name. He knew Peter was one of the four survivors of the fire that had happened six years ago. Knew that was why he was burnt. He knew that the loony man in his forties had to be a true alpha, which would explain why Peter’s wounds were healed and why the man was killed. He knew that the wand Peter used was magic, knew he probably had made a deal with something or someone or had killed him for it. He knew Peter was dangerous. 

“…Are they real?” Stiles asked. “Fairy godparents.”

And yet he didn’t care.

“Not sure,” he shrugged. He finally made his move on the checkerboard, having moved his tower to check one of Stiles’ pawns. “Am I not good enough for you?” he asked, stepping away from the windowsill and into his space, crowding him against the wall of his own room. 

Stiles shook his head. “That’s not it,” he almost whispered. He levelled his gaze with Peter’s. “You are who you are, I accept you for that.”

Peter held his waist and nuzzled his neck, he then whispered in his ear, “You know what I’ve done.”

“And you know what I haven’t done. Even though they deserve what should be coming to them,” he whispered back, knowing if he spoke too loud his family would hear them.

“Do you want me to?” Peter then asked. He pulled away from the boy, cupped his face instead. “Tell me and I will.” He knew what Peter was asking of him. Knew he’d finally be free of the awful people he said yes. He’d finally be free. He wouldn’t have to get hurt anymore. He knew this and yet…

“I… I don’t know…” he said, shaking his head as his eyes glazed over once more. He broke apart from Peter’s grasp and walked over to his small window in the attic, where Peter had stood. He looked outside so he could avert his gaze from the older man.

“I heard you that day.” Stiles turned his head, glancing back where the older man stood, now leaning against the wall. “You’re alone,” he answered. “You’ve been alone for three years, probably felt alone for much longer,” he said, never stopping even when tears spilled from the younger man’s eyes. “These people have treated you like the filth on the bottom of their shoe… You’re nothing to them Stiles.”

Stiles moved his arms around him, hugging his own body as he turned his entire body towards him now. “Why would you say such cruel—”

“Because you need to hear it,” he interrupted. “You need to understand that your place isn’t with these people.” His voice was stern. His entire stance was screaming anger, but even so, it wasn’t directed at Stiles. He was angry for him. And wasn’t that new? Someone being angry for him rather than at him. He stepped towards Stiles again, pulling on one of his arms and then putting his own arms around him, his chin hoisted on Stiles’ shoulder. “Your place was never meant to be with these people,” he whispered. And maybe he was manipulating the kid a bit. Maybe he was subconsciously forcing him to run away with him. But was that so bad? He lived a living hell and Peter could make it all go away… He wanted him to be happy, to laugh the same way he laughed when he first met him in his wolf form. 

But Stiles would never hear that from him, he’d swear that upon his grave. Peter Hale was not going soft.

Still, the feeling was there. In his life, after the Hale fire, he had not met a single soul kind enough like Stiles. When Peter first met Stiles he was still a beta, but he hadn’t seen Laura in years at that point. He’d been abandoned and he could feel his pack bonds breaking. He had heard Stiles. Had heard how lonely he was. 

And Peter was too. He was breaking and he was in pain. And Stiles never once ran away when he saw him. Not even when he saw the scars on his face. Instead he fed him and gave him water and cared for him. Then Stiles saw him again, this time in human form. And he still gave him food and water and money and even a blanket for the storm…

In return, Peter kept him warm during the storm when his abhorrent family threw him outside to freeze to death. And he even went all the way as to make a deal with multiple druids so he could give Stiles one night of peace. 

And of course the many nights he’d visit so he could check up on him, the nights where he’d bring food, break open the lock of the backdoor or the attic so Stiles could get in and out of the house, the times where he simply came to entertain him or to take away his pain and take care of him. 

“Then is my place with you?” Stiles asked, his face tear streaked and filled with pain. “I don’t want to be alone anymore, Peter,” he choked as he tried to get the words out. He hid his face in Peter’s chest, unwilling to look up or move away.

“Me neither,” Peter murmured as held the boy closer to his body. 

And that night Stiles did the one most courageous thing he had never done before. He had packed whatever little possession he had, wrapped it all around the blanket he had given Peter and left the house, never looking back once.

There was one part of him that felt a sick kind of pain for leaving the home his parents had once lived at, but Peter assured the awful family would be leaving soon and he’d be able to visit his home whenever he wanted. And true to Peter’s word, Prince McCall had the family moved out of the kingdom once he heard of their treatment of Stiles. The news, of course, sent by letter from Peter. Though the prince never needed to know that. And Stiles visited his house more often than not, redecorating the entire thing throughout several months. 

Stiles and Peter had also made their own house from complete scratch in the woods. They started their own pack and finally, they both lived not so lonely anymore.

Their lives may not have been peaceful, the supernatural lifestyle never is, but they lived a full and happy one. 

And maybe, just maybe, it was because of all the hardships that made everything else just so… 

Divine. 

He’d have to see what life would bring next, but for now, he was content with living day by day. Every day by Peter’s side.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed that!
> 
> Don't forget to leave a comment if you did! They are always welcome <3


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